Your loving mother,

Mum

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Racey O’Grady

Racey O’Grady lives in Dalkey, respectable neigborhood. Surprised. Thought all crime lords would live near one another so they could pop in and out of one another’s houses all day, borrowing cups of bullets and saying they had to nip down to shops for a minute, so would other person keep an eye on their hostage, and so on. Racey—vay keen on privacy—big house, own grounds, electronic gates, high walls, spikes on top.

I parked down road and not one person went in or out all day. Not even postman. Tediousity of it. Seriously worried that Racey might have gone to Marbella and that I’d have to go, too. Then at five o’clock the gates opened and out comes Racey. Looks well in flesh. Tanned, bright blue eyes, pep in step. Sadly, wearing very bad mushroom-colored shoes, open-necked shirt, and gold chain. Looked like football manager, but far, far better than Mr. Big.

He was carrying kit bag. I was convinced it was full of saws, pliers, and other torture tools, but he was just going to gym. Followed him (on foot) to Killiney Castle health club, where they wouldn’t let me in because I wasn’t member, so I said, was thinking of becoming member and would they give me tour? Okay, they said, and when they showed me the gym there was Racey, his blue veiny legs going hell for leather on the StairMaster. Innocence itself. Ages later he left, I followed him back, sat in car for another hour, then thought, fuck this for a game of skittles, he’s obviously not going to Marbella this evening, I’m going home.

62

On the train, Mitch and I rocked shoulder to shoulder in silence. We were returning from Coney Island amusement park, where we’d partaken of the rides a little too grimly. But that was fine. We weren’t there to enjoy ourselves, simply to pass the time.

The train rounded a particularly sharp corner and we both nearly fell out of the seat. When we’d straightened up again, I suddenly asked, “What were you like before?”

“Before…?”

“Yes, what kind of person were you?”

“What am I like now?”

“Very quiet. You don’t say much.”

“I guess I talked more.” He thought about it. “Yeah, conversations, I had opinions, I liked to talk. A lot.” He sounded surprised. “Issues of the day, movies, whatever.”

“Did you smile?”

“I don’t smile now? Okay. Yeah, I smiled. And laughed. What were you like?”

“I don’t know. Happier. Sunnier. Hopeful. Not terrified. I liked being around people…”

We sighed and lapsed back into silence.

Eventually I spoke. “Do you think we’ll ever go back to being who we were?”

He thought about it. “I don’t want to. It would be like Trish had never happened.”

“I know what you mean, but, Mitch, are we going to be like this forever?”

“Like what?”

“Like…ghosts? Like we died, too, but someone forgot to tell us.”

“We’ll get better.” After a pause he added, “We’ll be better but different.”

“How do you know?”

He smiled. “Because I know.”

“Okay.”

“Did you notice I smiled just there?”

“Did you? Do it again.”

He arranged his face in an ultrabright smile. “How’s that?”

“A bit game-show host. Wheel of Fortune.”

“Practice. That’s all I need.”

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Latest update

No one at mass recognized the old woman in the photo. I am going to bring it to golf and bridge and if I still don’t get a “result” I am going to ring RTE and see if I can get it on Crimewatch. Or Crimeline. Or Crimetime. Or whatever they’re calling it these days. Crimewhine, there’s another one. Can you think of any more? Helen calls it Grass Up Your Neighbors. Mrs. Big is back from Marbella and Helen will be resuming sitting in the hedge from tomorrow morning.

Your loving mother,

Mum

63

All set for tonight?” Nicholas asked. “The full moon?”

“Yes,” I said quietly, bringing the phone very close to my face. I was at work, and although it was unlikely that anyone would guess that I was discussing recording my dead husband’s voice, I wasn’t taking any chances.

“You got your tape recorder?”

“Yep.” Specially purchased.

“And you know not to start until after sunset?”

“Yes. I know everything.” Nicholas had e-mailed me a vast quantity of information on electronic voice phenomenon. To my surprise some scientific studies seemed to take it seriously.

“Well, take this to the bank!”

“What?”

“Weather Channel says there’s an eighty percent chance of thunderstorms this afternoon. That’s going to totally up the chances of Aidan talking to you.”

“Really?” My insides clenched with almost unendurable excitement.

“Yes, really. Good luck. Call me.”

I was agitated and fidgety. I couldn’t work, all I could do was pace and stare out the window. Late afternoon, the sky abruptly became purple and swollen and the air hot and still.

Teenie looked up from her desk. “Looks like we’re going to have a thunderstorm.”

I was so overwhelmed, I had to sit down.

The sky got darker and darker and I willed it on, and when the first rumble of thunder rolled over Manhattan, I let out a sigh of relief. Seconds later the sky cracked with lightning and the heavens opened.

Listening to the hiss of torrential rain drenching the city, I was trembling with anticipation; even my lips were. When my phone rang, I could barely talk. “Candy Grrrl publicity. Anna Walsh speaking.”

It was Nicholas again. “Can you believe it?” he exclaimed.

“A full moon and a thunderstorm,” I said numbly. “What are the chances of the two happening together?”

“Actually higher than you might think,” he said. “You know how the full moon affects the tides…”